


Anything Could Happen

by Flobbergasted



Category: New Girl
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Episode: s02e23 Virgins, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 06:15:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flobbergasted/pseuds/Flobbergasted
Summary: Coda to 2x23, “Virgins”





	Anything Could Happen

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on Fanfiction.net in 2013
> 
> Reposted here with minor corrections

The best part was laughing together. To laugh with someone, in bed, _afterward_ (heck, even _during_), and be certain that they wouldn’t interpret your laughing as a judgement but would simply relish, with you, the joy of the moment: that is a special thing.

Still, when the dopamine rush slowed to a steady beat a few minutes later, Nick looked once more at Jess and realized that here, in his bed, wearing a smile that he helped put on her face, was this beautiful woman. No, even better: this _wonderful person_.

Full of wonder. That’s how he felt. Had he really just calmly followed her to the elevator and carried her to his bedroom, like a caveman? Had she really kissed him with that much fervor? Was nighttime always this magical? Wonder: as though he was taking a cue from the everyday disposition of the very room-friend whose shivers and whimpers had just caused the surge of feeling in his hands, his shoulders—everywhere. He felt… potent. It was a potency he had not felt in a long time, or perhaps ever before.

He could be Trench-coat Nick all the time, if he wanted. He just _could_. Heck, Trench-coat Nick could get benched for the rest of the season, even, maybe, and Regular Nick who had suddenly become Alive Nick could just step in and take over.

It had been _nice_ with Alison, that first time, more than a decade ago. And memorable, and significant. It had been _good_ with girls since, and then with women, and sometimes _great_, and then _tender_ with Caroline, which had been an important phase. But _this_—this had been fun, and so warm, and so joyful. This had beenn … a homecoming.

* * *

“Yeah, so, we are doing that again. Right now.”

“I’m right there with you, Miller.”

* * *

As one might guess, it was the darkest, quietest hour of the night that brought on his darkest, quietest thought: _what if she regrets this tomorrow?_

He had been roused by the call of nature around 4 AM—precisely the time of night that makes one hyper-aware that it is nighttime, but also that nighttime is a fleeting thing. After stealthily de-spooning and extricating himself from the bed, padding to the kitchen for a tall glass of water, and padding back with an extra glass in hand for Jess (should she wake up at any point and want any), he stopped short just inside of his bedroom doorway. Here she was, in his bedroom, in reality.

Here she was, rolled over onto his side of the bed, presumably as a result of unconscious warmth-seeking after he had briefly vacated his spot. Here she was, mussed up and balled up in his mussed bedding. Here she was, groggily shoving over to make room for him as he returned. Here she was, humming softly and tossing an arm over him as he snuggled down. Here she was, happily accepting the deep kiss he couldn’t help but give her.

And here she was, awakening in the dark and opening herself up to him again.

And here she was, asserting herself.

And here she was, with him in a bone-crushing embrace, muffling the sounds of his climax, and the sounds of her own.

And here she was, staying.

* * *

He’d never be able to go back now. That is to say, _she’d_ never be able to go back. Across the hall. He’d never let her. Not after this. Not after she had given him everything he had always wanted to hold on to.

If he had a second swing at that state-of-the-union-summary-on-a-valet-parking-stub right now, he might write something like: “Kids. Joint checking account. Malm collection, if Jess wants. In your face, Russell.” Call him sentimental.

… Or: things would crash and burn, in typical Nick Miller fashion. He’d press too hard, or avoid taking the dive out of self-mistrust. She’d run away or cool down quickly. Then things would become terrible and awkward, and he’d have to move out—Winston had called it—and he’d lose the one new, healthy, major friendship that he had managed to found in pretty much all of his adult life. So yeah, that would suck a lot.

But the middle part would be awesome.

He could only hope, as he snuggled in closer, that the middle part would last beyond the few hours it would take for the sun to come up.


End file.
